Everybody loves Rita
by Astronomixicalixa
Summary: A short one-shot about Rita Skeeter. Very random,very pointless. It's quite sad in a way... no femme slash. Shame, really.


It was snowing heavily at Hogsmeade, the small, low rise buildings dusted with snow like figures on a cake. The Three Broomsticks' thatched roof was almost completely white; dark patches of straw shone through almost determinedly, and the whole effect was rather pretty. The door was firmly closed and bright lights flickered inside, shadows dancing out into the cold world outside. To any passing stranger, The Three Broomsticks looked like a sanctuary paradise. Unfortunately, once inside 'any passing stranger' wished they had never entered the damn place at all. Cold and wet? Who frickin' cared? Just please, please don't leave me here with…

Rita Skeeter.

She was in her sixties now, and a raving alcoholic. Slumped at a table, her grey ringlets splayed themselves across the wood, mouth open and a noise like a foghorn issuing from the cavernous depths of her too-large mouth. The winged spectacles, those awful, tasteless, entirely-Skeeter winged spectacles were smashed upon the floor. In her hand, half a fire whiskey smoked and sputtered, clutched beneath her fingers as if it was her life support. Rosmerta, seeing that the inn was getting rather busy, decided that it would be best to wake Rita and take her into her room before any trouble commenced. She liked Rita as much as the rest of them but… she couldn't just _leave_ her there. It was almost immoral. Like seeing a slug and letting it be pecked to death by a bird. And you had to admit, Rita was a slug. A hyperactive, bitchy, hideous, havoc-creating _mollusc_.

"Er… Miss Skeeter?"

Rita's mouth let rip with it's loudest snore yet, and she fidgeted slightly as if she had heard herself being called but couldn't quite be bothered to respond.

"Rita! Rita Skeeter!"

Several heads looked up then. "Rita Skeeter? Rita Skeeter's here?"

Rosmerta blanched, realising that she had given rather too much away. "No!" she said wildly. "Rita Skeeter? Here? No way. I'd never let her through the doors!"

A crowd had begun to gather, jostling to get a look at the drunkard sitting at the table. "Who _is_ that?"

"I don't know! I can't see!"

"It's… It's…" In desperation, Rosmerta blurted above the growing noise, "I never said Rita Skeeter! I said… Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater!"

The crowd fell silent for a second, obviously bemused. A thin voice weaselled it's way through the gathered people, laden with steaming dishes of sarcasm. "But surely… the last time _I_ heard, Peter, Peter Pumpkin Eater was _male."_

"Male? Noooooooo," The Barmaid winked at the crowd, harassment becoming her source of adrenaline. "Peter is quite obviously a woman!"

"Really?" An old, wizened warlock blinked beneath his bottle thick glasses. "Dear me, what they name children nowadays."

"I agree." A hag-and-a half joined the free for all. "In my day, children were called sensible names like Patience and Clarence. Not these silly, hip-hop variations."

The warlock looked semi-interested. "I agree." He stuck out a wrinkled hand for the hag to shake. "I'm Richard."

The hag shook his hand. "Hello Richard, good to meet you. I'm Stacey-Lou."

In the building confusion, Rosmerta shook the ex-journalist's shoulder. "Rita! Rita, you have to go!"

"SHE SAID RITA!" A dwarf disguised as a hob-goblin pointed hysterically at the inebriated wreck splayed across the table.

"WHAT?" The entire crowd screamed back in unison.

"She said I was an ele-wrinkled jollyphant!"

"She said I was a barmy old coot!"

"She said I was a has-been Hoover farmer!"

"She said I was a decrepit muggle- adoring Hobbit!"

"She said I was a bitch!"

The crowd rushed forward, flinging Rosmerta out of the way. "People please! Violence solves nothing!"

She was ignored. An ogre lifted up Skeeter with the ease of lifting a rag doll, and hurled her through the door and into the snow. The woman skidded like a sledge, eventually crashing into a large and snow covered tree. The crowd cheered.

"Come on." The Dwarf/Hob Goblin shook his head. "Let's get Butterbeer."

She hated to say it, but she had to. Rosmerta smiled. "It's on the house."

***

Fifteen minutes later, Rita actually woke up. _Christ, _she was cold. "Nyuuuuuuuuuurk." Damn, her eyes were closing, her limbs getting weaker….

"Rosmerta, get me another Fire-Whiskey…."

And at last, eternal sleep.


End file.
